Teras In The Rain
by Dannell Lites
Summary: What happened to Roy Batty after the film?


SPIFFY DISCLAIMER THINGIE!  
  
Ah do not own Roy Batty, Ric Deckard, Blade Runners, Nexus 6 Replicants, nor the world they   
inhabit:):) The title ("Blade Runner") springs from a novel by SF writer Alan E. Nourse. The   
concept and storyline comes (vaguely!) from the stunning novel "Do Androids Dream of Electric   
Sheep" by the inestimable Phillip K. Dick.  
  
Rated PG-17 for graphic violence.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Rain pounded the earth the way a vast brazen hammer pounds an anvil. I was crouched atop an   
immensely tall building in the cold, pouring rain, letting it wash the blood from off my uplifted face.   
  
And I was dying.   
  
I could feel it. My nerves sang a hot song of pain that coursed like fire all through me. It was like   
being dipped in acid. My hands curled themselves into my palms, spasmodically. Gritting my teeth   
against the agony, I glanced down at the large construction nail piercing the middle of my right hand.   
I had done that deliberately, hoping that the pain of it would distract me. And for a while it had; but   
no longer. It wasn't working any more. I pulled the nail out and tossed it away. The tiny clatter it   
made echoed in my mind like thunder. I hadn't too much longer. Instinct whispered the truth though   
my failing body.  
  
I swallowed hard. No, no, no ... It couldn't end like this! I wouldn't let it! Ric Deckard expected to   
die at my hands. Revenge for Leon and Zhora and so many, many others, dead by his hand. I   
glimpsed it in his terrified eyes. What did he see reflected in my eyes, I wondered? Fear? Death,   
perhaps? To him I wasn't a human being. Not a person, but a thing. A thing to be used and discarded when it's usefulness skidded to an abrupt end. The ultimate soldier ... created and trained   
for but a single purpose: to kill.  
  
And yet ...   
  
And yet ...  
  
Here at the end of my life, I discovered its beauty in the feel and taste of the rain upon my hot skin,   
the deep pealing sound of the distant thunder, the fresh scent of the air, washing the earth clean and   
new like a shiny child's toy glittering in the sun. With a smile I drew in a deep lungful of sparkling air   
and savored it's sharp tang. Not too many more of those, I knew.  
  
It would be easy to kill Ric Deckard ... so very easy ... After all, death is what I was created for,   
what I was made for; created and trained to deliver it with quick dispassion. It was all I knew. I   
had no other purpose. No other excuse for existing.  
  
All I had to do was lay my hands upon him ...  
  
Oh, yes ... easy to kill him ... so very, very easy ...  
  
Too easy.  
  
It's what he expected. Shaking with fear and the chill of the rain, he was resigned to it. It shone   
from out of his eyes like a beacon in the darkness of his terror.  
  
I was dying. What, I wondered, would I leave behind me? Fear and death? Anything at all?  
  
And when I was gone, they wouldn't even call it death. That was reserved for real human beings.   
When Ric Deckard or another Bladerunner killed one of us, they didn't call that murder, either.   
Nothing quite so vehement. They called it "retirement".  
  
*Could* I make myself more than they intended me to be? I did not know. Perhaps not.  
  
But I had to try.  
  
I watched Deckard closely, cowering in his tight little rooftop corner. What was he thinking, I   
wondered? I was bred to be curious. Was he preparing himself to met his Maker? Was that it? I   
thought perhaps that this was so. I've met my Maker. His name was Dr. Eldon Tyrell. And I killed him. With my hands. What would Ric Deckard do when he met his Maker? Questions ... So many questions .. And I would never know the answers. When I sought out my Maker, I was looking for answers.   
For solutions. I wanted to live. But that was not to be. Didn't Deckard want to live? His terror   
was mortal proof of that. Why did you Make me? I'd demanded of my Maker. Was Ric Deckard   
any different than I? Did he not ask himself the same questions; seek the same answers?  
  
Yes, he did.  
  
Naked from the waist down, and bare of foot, I stalked forward, ignoring the glass beneath my   
heels. The man cringing in the roof top's filthy, angular corner made a small sound, low and throaty,   
that might have been a whimper. He watched me with wide, glassy eyes as I slowly sat down,   
easing my increasingly heavy body onto the rooftop's slick, wet surface. His eyes never left my face   
but he blinked several times, either with the rain or in surprise, I couldn't quite tell which. In the end,   
though, it made not the slightest difference at all, did it? He was convinced that I meant to kill him.   
Ric Deckard ... Blade Runner; killer of my kind expected me to return the favor in kind.   
  
I smiled at him.  
  
"Quite an experience, isn't it?" I asked him, not really expecting an answer. He blinked back   
confusion and his lips thinned, but he never made a single sound. Not one.  
  
"That's what it's like to live in fear ..." I said softly, filling the yawning, thunderous silence. "To be   
hunted ..."   
  
His sodden face flushed with guilt and settled into less harsh and fearful lines now that he suspected   
that I meant to spare him. He seemed surprised. So was I, actually. I gazed at him out of the   
corner of my eye with a small, sad smile.  
  
"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe," I murmured, lost in mists of the past. "Attack ships   
on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I saw Cee-Beams glitter in the darkness at Tanhauser Gate ... All   
those memories ... all those ... things .... will be lost .... like tears in the rain ..."  
  
Was I crying? In the pouring rain it was impossible to tell.  
  
I was several hours dying but the man never left me; he did not flee and leave me to die alone as I   
expected. I underestimated Ric Deckard. Eventually, just before the end, he reached and took my   
hand. He never spoke to me, but he was there, a silent, caring presence. That made it easier.   
  
Did Deckard cry for me? In the pouring rain it was impossible to tell.  
  
I remember the sun setting and then rising, the morning sky ablaze with a thousand vibrant, dancing   
colors. I reached out a trembling hand to touch them ...  
  
And I remember thinking, "Beautiful ...." Then there was only gaping silence and the spreading,   
encroaching darkness come to claim me.  
  
Joyous, I welcomed it, embracing it like a lover.  
  
***  
  
My Maker looked up at me from out of huge, thick glasses, reminding me of  
nothing so much as a predatory owl waiting to strike. A small man, he  
nevertheless stood his ground as I advanced upon him, towering over him, looming in his presence   
like a storm cloud.  
  
"You were made as well as we could make you, Roy," explained Dr. Eldon Tyrell, Maker of   
Replicants ...   
  
My Maker.  
  
"But not to last," I whispered. The fear blossoming like a flower in his huge eyes confirmed it.  
  
"I want more life, Father!" I hissed.  
  
Removing his glasses, Dr. Eldon Tyrell began to polish them with nervous, busy hands.  
Holding up an admonishing finger backed by a tentative smile that flickered like a candle flame, he   
said, "Ah, but a short life burns all the more brightly for all it's brevity. And you have burned  
so very, very brightly, Roy!" Pride in his accomplishment shone from out  
of his owlish eyes as he regarded me clinically.   
  
Coming closer, he reached out to touch me, as if to confirm his genius in the creation of something as   
miraculous as I. Casually, I took his face between my hands and smiled down at him. "Well, then,   
Father," I said bitterly, "let me show you just how well you made me."   
  
Slowly I leaned down and kissed his hair - an ironic way of saying good-bye. And then I began to  
squeeze. He struggled then; panic-stricken, he lashed out with  
futile hands and feet, kicking and striking at me. I ignored him; casting aside his feeble blows like   
raindrops. As I said, he had made me very well, indeed.   
  
Beneath my hands, the bones began to  
crack. I pushed my thumbs through his eyes and although the blood and gore  
splattered me at such close range, I persisted. Then his temporal  
bones shattered and I found myself covered in grey-pink brain matter. I  
let Dr. Eldon Tyrell, Maker of Replicants, lord and master of the  
Tyrell Corporation, fall lifeless to the floor. Then I turned to face J.F. Sebastian, his  
friend and betrayer, stepping over Tyrell's body as I came for him. Sebastain  
fainted dead away at the sight of my gore begrimed face and was no fun at all when I killed him.  
  
****  
  
I woke with a start, shaking and covered in a cold sweat. Tangled in  
my blankets, I struggled to free myself. I refused to worry about  
waking my bed mate. Although he would be the last to admit it, Ryuchi  
slept like the dead. For such a streetwise urchin, he had several odd  
habits like that. I hugged my pillow to my chest protectively and tried to  
think. Most dreams begin to fade almost as soon as the dreamer wakes, but  
this one showed no signs of that. Shivering, I could still feel the bones  
crushing in my powerful hands and the feel of the cold rain wash over me,  
still taste the salty metallic tang of blood in my mouth.  
  
I had no idea who the man cringing in the rooftop corner was - not a clue. But the  
other man, Dr. Eldon Tyrell, I knew him well, of course. Who didn't?  
  
Startled, I jerked up straighter, my heart pounding like a trip hammer in my breast.  
  
Eldon Tyrell ...?  
  
Oh Lord! Roy! Those were Roy's dreams! Without a thought, I all  
but flew down the hall to Roy's room. When I saw the soft golden light  
seeping from around the edges of the partially closed heavy oak door,  
wrestling back the darkness of the hallway, like Jacob with his Angel, I began to relax, already   
suspecting  
what I would find on the other side. And I was right, of course.   
  
Peering into Roy's room I saw him tossing violently on his bed, his powerful body racked  
with painful spasms. Then, almost immediately, the Nexus Six Replicant began to relax  
under the gentle influence of the warm golden glow emanating from  
Beol's slender hands. "Shhhh," soothed the empath as he stroked Roy's  
forehead with his long, elegant fingers, "Everything's all right now.. Go to sleep ... go to sleep ..."   
Slowly Roy began to relax, the harsh lines of his face softening into the peace of restful slumber.   
Within moments, he was asleep with a smile on his face.  
  
How to explain about Roy? Even to myself? Harboring him here is dangerous. Illegal doesn't   
begin to describe aiding and abetting a runaway, fugitive Replicant. If I'm discovered, my life and   
the lives of all in my Household are forfeit. No questions aked. The Tyrell Corporation and what   
passes for a government in these dark days have seen to that. I suppose I can't really blame them   
for being afraid. Replicants are illegal on Earth. They were meant only for use in the Outworld   
Colonies. A Nexus 7 Replicant like Roy Batty is much stronger, quicker, infinitely more durable   
than anyone merely human. Smarter too, if I'm any judge and I flatter myself that I am. No wonder   
people are so terrified of them.  
  
It was Beol who discovered Roy. Or, rather, Roy discovered Beol. Beol is a dancer. Three shows   
nightly at the Funiki Club on Ginza Street. I try not to let myself think too much about what he   
sometimes does *after* the show is done. Beol shines like polished gold with his sunshine blond hair   
and deep tan. He has plenty of "customers" ... I've warned him time and time again to be careful,   
but he doesn't listen. I've tried many times to get him to quit. We don't need the money that  
badly. But he ... can't ... It's part of his empathic nature, I suppose.   
  
"But they're so lonely," he mourns. "How can I not help them? It's such a small thing they want ... Just to be close to someone ... if only for a little while ..."   
  
He's far too trusting. Roy is a perfect example of that. You see, Roy tried to rob Beol. He was   
desperate, I guess. Alone and adrift in the City with nowhere to go and no one to help him; hunted   
like an animal. So what did my naive empath do, God love him? He brought Roy home.  
  
Ryuchi was furious. "Skin jobbie, big, big trouble! Blade Runners come, Missy! You see!"  
  
"Enough with the CitySpeak gobbledygook, Ryo!" I'd snapped, unhappy. "You know the Rules! I   
don't allow it in the House! Speak English! Or Japanese! I don't care which!"  
  
He cursed in gutter Japanese and slipped off, fading like a shadow. Almost, and not for the first   
time, I regretted his presence. But the truth is, I need him. No one scrounges like Ryo. If we need   
something, no matter how scarce or exotic, Ryo can find it. And there isn't *anything* that happens   
in this City that he doesn't know about. A very useful talent, indeed. He's earned his place in the   
Household a thousand times over.  
  
"Come on in," Beol told me without bothering to turn around. I was not surprised that he had known   
I was there. Little about Beol surprises me, anymore. Still seated on the edge of Roy's bed, he   
tucked the blanket gently under the larger man's chin like a child. "He'll sleep now," he assured me.   
"Don't worry." Smiling, I cat footed my way to Beol's side and entwined my arms around the   
burnished column of his slender neck.  
  
"And I bet he won't remember a thing in the morning, will he?" I guessed.  
  
"No," Beol admitted, "he won't ... Did I do right? I thought it best." Kissing  
the nape of his neck with soft lips, I sighed in pleasant exasperation.  
  
"Do you do this for him every night?" I wondered. Beol looked  
almost embarrassed.  
  
"Most nights," he confessed. I almost had to smile at the "little boy with his hand caught in the   
cookie jar" flush that suffused him. "Roy gave me a book to read once. A play by  
a man named Shakespeare. It was called 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' and  
there's a wonderful character in it named Puck. At one point Puck cries  
out, 'Oh God! I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself King  
of the Universe were it not that I have bad dreams!' I always think of  
Roy when I remember those lines."  
  
Roy has a lot of bad memories. The Tyrell Corporation makes Replicants. That's what they do.   
And they make them exceedingly well. The original Roy Batty was a Combat Model, designation   
Alpha A -- the best the Tyrell Corporation made. A soldier made to kill aliens, to secure the   
Outworld Colonies and leave them safe for mankind. A Nexus 6. Top of the Tyrell line at the time.   
So close to human that even a biologist would need specialized equipment to tell the difference.   
Implanted with memory ingrams, provided with a phony "past" that never existed for his own 'mental   
health', they said. The Nexus 6 proved to be somewhat unstable, much to the lasting grief of the   
Tyrell Corporation. In fact, Roy was the one who taught them that. But, of course, with only a built   
in, genetically imprinted four year life span the problem was self correcting, wasn't it? That is until   
Roy Batty. Until Roy lead a revolt with his Nexus 6 Combat Team, escaped back to Earth and   
began looking for answers to his dilemma. He didn't find them, sadly. The original Roy Batty   
perished.   
  
But the Tyrell Corporation, never ones to let sleeping dogs lie or waste prime genetic material,   
recreated him when they implemented the Nexus 7 Series Model. Recreated him. With   
improvements. And all of his memories intact, apparently. After all, there aren't very many people   
who can remember what it's like to die. Thank God. But the original Roy's strong personality must   
have reasserted itself in the new Roy. He killed a dozen guards and fled, losing himself in the City.  
  
Until Beol found him. And brought him home to me. After that, I suppose he just never left.  
  
"You love him too, don't you?" I realized with mounting awe, staring at Beol.  
Beol nodded his golden head and his crystal blue eyes gleamed in the soft, pure light of the gathering   
dawn.  
  
"Oh, yes." he smiled. "But not as much as *you* do." I bit my lip.  
  
"Beol, I - I love you all. I don't mean to favor Roy - it's just  
-it's just -" I choked and couldn't continue. My tongue seemed to go numb in the cavern of my   
mouth. But I needn't have worried. Empathy can be wonderful thing. Sometimes words only get in   
the way.  
  
"I know," he kissed my cheek in sympathy. "It's just that you're  
afraid he won't be with us long. You don't want to lose him. Neither  
do I."  
  
Taking his strong, soft hands, so very skilled at a great number of things, in mine I kissed their  
sensitive tips. I've never figured out why, but Beol's hands and feet are major erogenous  
zones for him. The tall empath threw back his head and arched his back, his  
mouth falling into a small perfect O of pure bliss. Smiling, I lowered  
him to the floor. Beol liked to be taken, swept away on a rising tide of passion; he was rarely the   
aggressor. But his small cries of pleasure were always music to my ears. I played  
that slender, graceful body almost as well as Beol plays Mozart ...  
  
Finis  



End file.
